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Flower was all long limbs and hard cut bone- coltish wrists hidden under thick padding. Wobbled slightly under the weight of it all like a newborn deer, learning to run before learning to take its first steps. Wobbled under the weight of being the youngest goaltender in the league, freshly 18 and barely able to drink legally before being shipped off onto unknown land. Wobbled under the pressure of being the savior of a dying team.
His back hunched and bowed through his sentences of messy English, grasp slippery and faltering as he slipped back into easier French. The awkward smile showing too many teeth like a dog riddled with mange showing its only weapon in muscle memory- like a dog who didn't mean to bite but only knew how to do exactly that.
Mario's chest ached- sharp and acute right between his ribs and nestled into the bend of his spine for the kid- Flower was sweet- like tea with honey- how Nathalie liked it. For all his sharp edges and quick chirps, the way he gently leaned into physical affection betrayed him. Leaning into taps a little too sharply, pressing heavily into the side of Geno when the Russian opened his arms to the kid. His nickname was rightfully so- sweet as a spring bloom, turning to face his chosen sun each day like a dutiful follower.
His eyes always flicked back and forth in the locker room- like he was tracking a puck coming straight at him. Maybe it was the unsure nerves of being stretched thin in unknowing where he'd go next. If he'll stay or if he'll be pushed back into the AHL for half a season before getting ripped from their grasp on unsure footing.
Geno was a familiar face- Sidney a touch more, partially washed out memories of Canadian World Juniors lapping solemnly at their quiet laughs. Flower's spine would curve to him like wisteria up a strong wooden support beam, leaning and curling over its sharp edges like a buffer between it and the harsh winds and rain.
Part of the blame for every loss fell straight on top of Marc-Andre's bowing shoulders. It'd curl his spine and hips in like a wilting thistle- his words turning a hair sharper before the color would drain from his cheeks, freckles standing out starkly where they dotted across his sharp cheekbones. He'd gnash his teeth like a scared dog. Like that was his only option while cornered with no clue how to free himself from it.
It hurt to watch- barely breeching 20 and bowing his head like a weeping willow amid spring, soaking up the sun of Geno and Sidney, back bent and hair fanning around long eyelashes and a heart-shaped smile. How he'd shoulder the blame like some lonesome soldier walking to his death through no-mans-land, his dog tags hanging low on his clavicle.
Flower would take every tap like a strong tree, gently swaying with every beat of the earth's heart- even if the earth had an irregular one- he'd sway in the wind, branches reaching upwards to bask in the sharp buzz of fluorescent rink lights. He took to honeysuckle yellow like a lotus to water- replacing off red with sharp black and sleek lines. He took to it like a bird to the sky, swooping and chirping happily with each rub on the shoulders- each jarring hug that forced the air out of his chest in a woosh.
He thinks- that in the cavity of Flower's chest sat an azalea plant- something that bloomed under the right care and time, something that required love and hard work to reap the benefits. Something that required consistent attention. It would wilt under the wrong care- closing its buds and scrunching its roots close to its bulb in protection to scarcity. Marc bloomed under a gentle hand. He smiled more with warm affection and cool water- dimples forming sharply in the hollows of his cheeks.
Mario knew his time in hockey was closing- the slim opening he landed in was soon to be shut closed like a Venus flytrap snapping at an unfortunate bug. Knew he landed at the right time and kicked off running before anything could stop and block him. He knew he would be leaving the Penguins soon. Maybe take some of the loose ire that floated in the locker rooms like a loose strand of duckweed in a pond, flourishing in warm water when left unchecked.
Knew he had to find someone who could be the gentle hand that Marc flourished under. It pained him- knew the change would be sharp and acute, like a sandspur digging into your heel. Knew that Flower might look at him with hatred in his eyes. The anger would cover the desperation for stability- the craving to have stable ground under him the moment he stands. It would cover the ache of loss- it was easier to be angry than it was to rub away sticky tears clumping up the delicate eyelashes that fanned across the apples of his cheeks.
He was like a plant that spread its roots in the soil the moment you planted it- each time you tear it from the ground it comes back more frail, branches and leaves just a touch wrong. That each wrong move jarred its growth and the time it took to reinstate itself. Knew that with the right hand, it could be fixed- and maybe Mario wasn't the hand he needed. It was easy to act like they were invincible- that the team they got threaded into would always be their team- it was jarring when they were torn away from it. Hockey was a team sport, not a game built for just one man.
He felt safe leaving Flower with them. Knew that he wouldn't have to worry about being there to watch the little goalie. Sidney snapping his teeth like an overprotective guard dog and Geno with his sharp words. They could be the sun he needed. The gentle hands needed to coax him from the pre-bloom phase he was caught in, the flower always lobbed off before it could unfurl and soak in the needed nutrients. They could be the trellises he needed- wrapping gently around them in need of support until he could grow the strength to support himself.